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ian green

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WEiRd voices for your head


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WEiRd voices for your head ========================== . 

DRIVE BY

Part One - Maleovence Breeds Discovery

1 - Home Delivery

          "Turn here." signalled the black man, riding shotgun.
The driver, already pulling the needle past the 80 mile per hour
mark, banked hard left and raced down 4th Street, gunning the
engine and pushing the car to an incredible 105 miles per hour.
The diesel engine whined, being pushed past its theoretical
limit.  The needle crept towards 120 miles per hour.

          "OK, everyone," the black man said icily. "We're two
minutes away.  Keep y'uzis ready.  Thomas, keep them grenades
handy, we might meet up with some tards in body armour.  Everyone
ready?"

          Collectively, the contents of the car let out a
nervously held breath.

          "Ready, Sir." they replied in unison.

          Arthur Sand settled down into the plush leather of the
passenger side seat.  No-one said a word.  They'd all been
through enough of these raids to know not to talk just before the
kill.  It disturbed the Captain.

          "Sir, we're almost there," announced Clair, the fat
rookie with the wen beside his nose.  "I can see it in the
distance."

          Good, thought Sand.  We'll wait a couple seconds for
the homegrowns to come out.  The junkies gotta get their fill,
don't they?  He laughed silently to himself.

          "Once you see the first camera lens come out, slow down
to drive-by speed. Everyone else, roll down your windows."  Sand
pronounced it windaz.  He flipped the safety off of his assault
rifle and opened up the sunroof.  "Let's rock."

          Clair saw some heads pop out of a deserted pill box,
and slowed the car sufficiently to get the needle down to 25.
Another few looked out of the windows of the shabby Old Town
slums, some others, wasted 10 storey duplexes.  Sand gave all the
little kids the finger.

          The first flash went off just before the house came
into view - it was a victorian ripoff bungalow with cracked
plaster on its walls.  Two skinny kids, not more than 9 or 10
years old, were out on the porch passing a paper bag, trying to
look grown up.  The taller one had a cigarette smouldering
nervously in his fingers.  They didn't know what hit them.

          "TAKE 'EM DOWN!!!" Sand cried.  God this is fun, he
thought, as he shot the kids on the porch.  More cameras
materialized out of nowhere.  A second flash captured their
agonized death poses.  Sand grinned as the paper bag hit the
sidewalk, shattering the bottle inside.  He made a mental note to
make sure the newsies got that on tape.

          The house was lost amid a torrent of camera flashes and
gunfire.  Bullets rained upon the cheap house, covering it in
powdery bullet holes.  Glass shattered and fell upon the dead
bodies on the front porch, producing several new uncontrollable
haemorrhages.  Sand grinned as his assault rifle belched a
fantastic display of yellow fire from its muzzle.  Thomas and
Arland, both armed with tank quality cannons, opened fire as the
cruiser met the house side by side.  Two white men, both armed
with ancient .22 calibre revolvers, appeared behind successive
broken windows, futilely protecting the people inside.  They were
mowed down instantly, sandwiched between slug after bloody slug.

          "Eat this, you bastards!" A skinny old man, dressed
only in overalls and his beard, appeared in the driveway with a
large, automatic rifle.  Sand was momentarily taken aback at this
crazed maniac - where in the hell did he get that gun?? Sand
thought.  But only for a second.  The old man aimed at the
cruiser, managing to hit the car twice before the recoil broke
his skinny arms like toothpicks.  Sand trained his AK-47 at the
old man and mowed him down like the grass he was lying on.

           Two more men broke the bullet ridden front door down
and fired on the cruiser.  They were both similarly gunned down
in a shower of bullets.  A woman ran out of the side door,
yelling and screaming to some unknown God, a baby in her arms.
The pink curlers in her hair fell on the sidewalk amid pools of
blood.  She shuffled madly away from the gunfire, her feet not
receiving the messages from her brain.  Sand, his rifle empty,
trained his service revolver on her and blew her traitor brains
out.  The baby fell to on the pavement and was crushed under the
weight of its fallen mother.

          Prayin' to the wrong side, bitch.

          "Hurry up NOW!"  Sand screamed.  As he madly tried to
refill his rifle magazine, a car burst out of the garage,
breaking the door into chunks of rotten wooden pieces.  It hit
the cruiser broadside, near the rear left fender, sending it
fishtailing towards the opposite side of the house.  The cruiser
choked once, and died.  Sand was knocked back and dropped a
handful bullets on the car floor.

          "DAMMIT!  BURN THAT SONOFABITCH!!"  Sand roared,
pointing to the car.  Its radiator had burst in the crash and the
driver was trying desperately to start it again.  His partner,
sitting in the back, opened up the side door and came out with a
submachine gun and a mile of gold coloured rounds.  He sprayed a
swath of bullets into the cruiser, two of them hitting Clair, one
in the thigh, and one in the head, killing him instantly.

          "CLAIR?!?!?!??  DRIVE THE GODAMMED CAR NOW!  MOVE IT!"
Sand bellowed.  He kicked him in the shoulder but Clair just fell
deeper into his seat.  Blood trickled into his crotch, staining
the plush grey leather seat below.  Sand dropped his gun and
frantically kicked the driver side door open.  Clair dropped out
and slumped onto the road, half in, half out of the car.  His
head bobbed uncontrollably, like a buoy in a riptide.  Sand
jammed his foot on the gas pedal, but the cruiser didn't move.

          "GET THE REST OF THEM DAMMIT!!!!!!"  Sand howled.  The
windshield fell in around him, showering him with safety glass.
Arland, his cannon empty, cocked his shotgun and blew the
submachine gun toting dissident away.  His muscles were blinded
and he fell to the bloody concrete, still pulling on the trigger
of his gun, killing two newsies in the process.

          Sand jammed one leather clad boot on Clair's butt and
gave it a shove.  Clair tumbled out of the car, cracking his head
on the pavement.  The bullet hole above his temple opened
further, exposing the still pulsing brain underneath.  In a
frenzy, Sand clamped down on the gas and the cruiser lurched
forward, sickeningly.  He turned the cruiser in the right
direction, letting the transmission drop into 4th gear.  The car
sped away, gaining speed as it finally passed the sea of newsies.
Thomas unhooked a grenade and pulled the pin.  He lobbed it
towards the car as Sand gunned the cruiser to the 100 mile per
hour limit.

          "Dammit, you're all getting demerits," Sand gasped,
"that was the sloppiest drive-by I've ever seen in my entire 37
year career!  The cruiser got totalled dammit!"

          "We lost Clair, sir."  Arland returned, seeing the
small black dot in the distance that was Clair.  "What are we
going to tell his wife?"

          "Forget Clair," the Captain replied, the icy cool
returning to his voice.  He eased off of the accelerator
slightly. "The rookie wanted to stay on the crack squad, dint
he?"

          "Yessir."  Arland and Thomas replied in unison.

          "Well then," Sand continued, bringing the car down to
the 45 limit, "it's his own fault.  Arland, send a telex to his
wife.  And send the gyro down there to scrape up the mess.  I'll
burn it myself."

          "Yessir."

          Sand fished out his packet of Stubbs and lit one,
dragging deeply on the coal coloured cigarillo.  He offered one
to Arland.

          "Thank you, sir."  Arland replied, like the lackey he
was.

          Sand smiled.  Grey smoked dripped out of his nose.

          What a nice fucking day for a kill, he thought.

          Forgotten, miles away, two small children were poking
at the remains that were Clair.
. WEiRd voices for your head ==========================
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